Hush Little Baby
by Rikoki
Summary: A History of Nate River. Rated PG-13 for themes and language.
1. 0

_Hush little baby don't say a word_

_momma's gonna buy you a Mo'ckin'bird_

Samantha would rock her baby doll back and forth for hours, singing to it and feeding it and even sometimes, when Mommy wasn't home,

she would teach it.

The alphabet was her favorite - and she would make sure her baby knew it just as good as she did. She hated numbers though, so her baby didn't have to learn those.

Nobody needed to count anyway, right?

It's favorite story was the same as hers; The Velveteen Rabbit. Samantha had asked her mommy for one like it once - for her baby doll, of course - but she never got one.

That was ok though, because she still had...

she still had _him_.

His name was Nathan, and sometimes Samantha would call him by it - singing about Mockingbirds and diamond rings, like one she might wear one day.

She thinks that she has years before that'll ever happen - before marriage, or a real house,

or a real baby Nathan.

But really,

Samantha is 28 years old.

She had been accepted to Oxford college for her outstanding marks in creative writing and literature; and the funds her parents had collected were more than enough to cover at least the first two years. Her parents called every night at least twice, because England was a long way away from New Jersey.

During her fifth semester, Samantha met Foster - a Junior with a major in microbiology and a minor in either religion or psychology; she could never remember.

They were married after only fourteen months, mostly because Foster was graduating early, and Samantha had plans to transfer to a publishing company in Germany; marriage, they decided, would make the move easier.

Three years later, Samantha was hit while walking home from the library - the driver wasn't drunk, but young and inexperienced and...well...

not watching. Not seeing.

"It was too dark," he had said, head in his hands - which were coated with blood, dry and flaking.

And Foster never pressed charges, because she would have wanted it that way.

Samantha had suffered massive head trauma, and Foster cried his first night in the hospital beside his wife

who couldn't

remember

who he was.

"It's amazing that she's even walking, Mr. River. We're never going to get her back."

That summer, Foster re-married, and rarely visited Samantha at her parents' home.

Then Samantha started writing again; sometimes her mother would send Foster copies in the mail, "for memory's sake".

But one day, the story she sent was

theirs.

It was a three page recollection of their first few months together: their first date, first kiss, first night - even their plans for the future.

Right down to the accident;

and he was in love again.

He spent four months back in New Jersey with her - and for a while, he had her back. They even made love once or twice before

before

she forgot everything.

Without her memories, they had nothing - so Foster bought his last plane ticket home to Germany,

and never even knew that Samantha was

pregnant.

He came three months early, and she named him Nathan River, because she loved that name; she even had a baby doll named Nathan, she told doctors before her caesarian.

And Samantha screamed and kicked when they took him - she just couldn't understand that he wasn't breathing.

Her mother - Nate's grandmother, never let him out of her sight; spending hours beside the incubator, singing;

just like she knew Samantha would, when it was time to bring him home.

But the first time mother and son were re-united, she was quiet - holding him close and rocking, but never singing. Her mother was worried, ready to act in case something was

triggered.

Samantha started to cry, and looked up at her mother with red swollen eyes

and a tear that rolled down her face to what was undoubtedly

a smile.

"Mommy.....he's _breathing_. Hear it? Listen, mom - he's....he's beautiful. Nate's beautiful."

They brought him home that week, wrapped in crisp white cotton that exaggerated white-blond hair and pale skin.

Samantha would rock her baby back and forth for hours, singing to him and feeding him and even sometimes, when she was feeling strong enough,

she would teach him.

_And if that mock'in'bird don't sing, momma's gonna buy you a diamond ring....._


	2. 1

Nate grew quickly - and Samantha really was a good mother

most of the time.

Her mother, Grace, brought her grandson with her to work every day while Samantha went to physical therapy; she had been working at the courthouse for close to ten years, so her word was law by now.

And he was a good baby.

She even bought him toys just for "at work," so that he might have something to look forward to.

Some days, he would sit beneath her desk with his blocks and stack them for hours;

then other days, he would lean against the wall of her cubicle with his books and pretend to read until it was time to go home. He really did love his books - and even as a baby, he was careful about keeping them safe.

Lunch was a tricky affair - the first fifteen minutes were always spent rushing from her cubicle to the lounge,

trying to prepare both her food and his as quickly as possible with an infant on her hip.

Then they would eat outside by the fountain beside the courthouse,

where the birds always flocked in the afternoon.

Nate even said his first word by the fountain, arms outstretched and eyes wide, watching.

"Fwy."

Grace spent weeks bragging about it, because everyone always said that baby Nate was the quietest baby they had ever seen.

He was almost two when he started rocking - and his grandma had never seen anything like it.

With his odd behavior, limited movement, and one-word sentences,

people were beginning to talk;

and Grace didn't want to believe that Nate was as stunted as his mother.

She took him to Samantha's doctor when the rocking got worse and he still wasn't walking.

He was only a physical therapist, but it didn't take him long to come up with a "possible diagnosis".

Autism wasn't the worst thing Grace could have heard - especially with Samantha's worsening condition,

but it meant that he wasn't a normal baby, either.

The doctor mentioned a name - someone he called "Quillish Wammy," who worked as a child psychologist for a few years, but still does work on "gifted children."

"I think he lives in Winchester now - but I'd go ahead and call him, before Nate's too old. The list of children is....lengthy."

He slips her a phone number on a crumpled piece of receipt paper before she leaves;

Nate, who still refuses to walk, is cradled on her hip, again.

Grace decides to keep the number, but doesn't call it - maybe all Nate really needs is more time with

children.

So she and Samantha bring him to the park for the first time, during the summer of course.

It's late April, and there are a couple of infants that are about Nate's age - but Grace might swear that he wants nothing at all to do with them. He even cries when Samantha sets him down in the grass, and there isn't much that Grace can say to make her sit him back down.

"He's crying, momma! Let me take him home!"

And when they get home, Nate works on his alphabet puzzle in the floor until it is time for bed.

Grace makes sure to bring the puzzle with her when she puts him in his crib,

because she doesn't think he's been sleeping well lately.

On August 24th Nate turns two,

and his grandmother calls the number on the crumpled receipt paper.


	3. 2

The voice on the other end of the phone,

somewhere across the sea in England,

tells Grace that it will be at least a year before they can see him - maybe sooner, if there is a development. But Grace doesn't understand what that means, and is losing hope of ever having a normal grandson.

He's become very good at crawling - especially when he's trying to get to Samantha or Grandma,

or something he's not allowed to have.

This is also how Nate finally learns how to stand for the first time; while trying to reach his grandfather's bucket of metal-tipped darts up on a shelf.

But grandpa Lewis catches him before he can get to them, smelling like an old cigar and laughing like maybe this is some kind of game.

He shows him how to throw them the right way before Grace gets home from the grocery store.

"It'll be our little secret, huh sport? I can trust you not to say anything?"

It's a joke, and he brushes a hand through Nate's white hair before stepping out onto the porch to smoke another cigar - he'd been smoking more and more often since he got home a month earlier.

Now Nate practices with grandpa's darts every time he has a chance, sitting on his knees in the middle of the living room with the bucket tucked between his legs.

The game is over when he runs out and has to crawl across the room to pick them up.

He has a full head of hair now, and takes to twirling a thin finger through loose strands while he reads or thinks.

The rocking has gotten better, and he's finally walking,

but his posture is poor - always hunched over a little - and he seems to want to touch everything.

It doesn't seem to matter if Grace tells him the stove is hot or not - Nate _needs _to touch it.

Or if she tells him that the carpet is dirty - he's still on his hands and knees running his fingertips over the berber.

And she's worried

that maybe there really is something wrong with him this time.

But the doctor has little more to tell her, even with his posture so poor.

"He's still getting used to the feeling, Grace - it's not a common thing for a child to wait so long before walking; I wouldn't think too much on it."

And Quillish Wammy still hasn't called her back.

Samantha plays with him sometimes - stacking his blocks with him, or throwing darts with him, or letting him read while tucked in her lap. She loves him more than anything,

and doesn't understand why she can only see him during the evening while her mother is home with them. It doesn't seem fair for a mommy to have to wait all day to hold her baby, she tells Lewis one morning,

and he can't say that he disagrees.

But Grace is too protective, and won't cooperate - maybe she even believes that Nate is the way that he is

because of his mother.


	4. 3

Grandpa Lewis dies that September of cancer. Ironically, it had nothing to do with his smoking, but their doctor had been so focused on the old man's lungs

that he had failed to notice the colon cancer until it was too late.

Things are hard for a while - especially for Grace. Samantha barely notices, and Nate still plays darts sometimes - but he cries when grandpa doesn't come to help them pick them up; it's his least favorite part.

And Grace has another problem.

Nate still comes to work with her in the mornings, but she has Christmas shopping to do.

She's too tired anymore to carry him on her hip all the damned time,

and Samantha's been so much better lately.

He _is _her son, after all; and as long as they stay inside, Nate is smart enough to take care of himself.

But they don't stay inside.

It's late November, and there is a fresh layer of snow covering New Jersey by now.

Grace comes home to find the house empty,

bathtub full,

and coats hung neatly in the closet - just as they were when she left. And the old woman panics, because there is no way in heaven that her daughter bathed Nate then took him outside

in the snow

with no coat.

No, God no.

She prays, shouting orders across the line. 48 hours her old and broken bones; Nate didn't have that long.

They settled with her, sending out a single patrol car to scout the city.

Patrol car 382 found Samantha sitting under the swing set at the park; her arms and lap were covered by...

the policeman gasped, taking a deep breath before speaking into the receiver:

"Subject is wearing a dark brown turtleneck, jeans, and....a child's white night shirt."

Nate was found an hour later

He was in the hospital for five weeks before Grace talks to her daughter again.

Doctors decide that it is better for Samantha to stay at the hospital too, with her amnesia getting worse.

They are worried;

this is what finally leads to the ultra sounds

the x-rays

and the daily appointments to radiology.

And then, they find it.

The tumor is about the size of a golf-ball - and has been blocked by scar tissue behind the brain.

"She has a month, maybe."

Nate cries when his mother dies, tiny fingers refusing to let go of her hospital gown for hours.

And Grace can't stop heaving long enough to take him from the room - sitting in the chair across the hallway with her head in her hands.

"I can't take this anymore - and he's not getting any better. He hasn't talked since she left us, not at all! And he won't play. He always plays. Always."

There is a heavy sigh on the other end of the line; Quillish is tired of false alarms.

"I will be sending someone." He says, and she can hear frustration in his voice.

"We will see if we can help."

His hand eye skill is incredible for his age, and he seems to have an immediate skill with puzzles - and the ability to piece them together perfectly from left to right

without hesitation. The two men dressed in suits walk outside after only twenty minutes and make another phone call.

Quillish has never seen anything like it before,

except once.

"I would like to bring him back with us to Winchester - we can teach him there. He will have a wonderful future at our school."

And Grace can't refuse, because she is getting too old to raise her grandson by herself - and the money they offer her is more than she has seen in her entire life.

"Can I talk to him, when he gets there?"

"He doesn't seem to talk."

"Can I talk to you?"

Quillish thinks for a moment before finally answering. "Yes."

She won't live much longer with that cough, anyway.


	5. 4

Woooooow, I'm sorry guys! D: It's been FOREVER since I updated – gonna get on updating everything right away 3 Sorry again for the delay!

-Kelle

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It's the first time Nate's ever been on an airplane. Ever.  
At least, as far as he can remember.  
He passes the hours counting clouds and humming,  
and once Quillish even brought him to the front of the plane to touch the controls, as long as he was careful.  
Besides the pilot, they were the only two in the cabin - and it was almost comforting, because there was nobody to stare at him.  
Not anymore.  
Not  
yet.

Nate doesn't remember losing his name at all - in fact, it was a perfectly synchronized motion.  
Just like when he lost his clothes, or his books,  
and his darts.  
They seemed to fall out of existence entirely; and weather he realized it or not, Near had decided the name for himself -  
a word chosen from a specific page from a specific book that he had read 'x' number of times  
at specifically the right moment.  
"Everything has a reason," Quillish told Near. "Everything has meaning - and I'll teach you. Everything."  
The real problem with Near, Roger whispered once during his first week,  
was that even at such a young age,  
he was already convinced that he _knew_ everything.

They boarded the train almost seven months later, and Quillish promised that this would be the last time.  
He told Near that he was going home,  
and I suppose he must have assumed that N, his "N", was bright enough to know the difference between old and new.  
He didn't even have the heart to tell him that his Grandmother would never be able to write him, now - not after her stroke;  
and especially not after leaving the tiny apartment they had been staying in.  
They had never intended on forwarding a new address.  
Roger still wasn't convinced that Near was ready for Wammy's - his speech was imperfect and sloppy, not to mention irregular. He rarely even spoke when asked a question, preferring to point or write or even (most of the time) just ignore what was asked of him completely.  
Less so with Quillish, but then Roger was a moron, after all.  
Maybe it was a good thing that Near never told him so.  
"I want him evaluated - no use stirring up the other students. He's _rude_, Quillish! Absolutely below the level we've already achieved. We're wasting our time."  
And Quillish had never seen anything like it before,  
except once.  
So it was decided that they would wait until Near was five before introducing him into the program for the first time.

Or at least a couple more months;  
because Near  
didn't have a birthday, anymore.


	6. 5

The irony is that things might have been better off had he been introduced earlier.  
Or worse.  
I guess it really depends on who you asked.  
See, at five years old Near was more than academically capable of performing on a level closer to an eight or nine year old, with his year of independent tutoring and a memory that MIGHT have even been photographic.  
This meant that Near would be placed with an older class.  
This meant,  
that Near was allowed to meet Mello.  
Nobody could have predicted that this would be bad, necessarily - Near, even with improvement, was nowhere close to Mello's level when it came to the basics:  
math, history, even simple problem solving - and Mello was much more determined in his studies.  
Roger thought that Mello was at least _trying_ to be patient with Near -who was in his defense, a "rude, egotistical, beady eyed little brown-noser who knew nothing about nothing!"  
A description allowed to him after their first joint evaluation three weeks after courses began, when Near called Mello an uneducated infant with poor grammar;  
and Mello insisted that his Russian accent could kick Near's ass.  
And then,  
Near called him stupid.  
If Roger, or Quillish, or even I think L could have offered Near ANY beginning advice, it might have been that  
Mihael "Mello" Keehl was not, in the least bit  
at all  
even a little  
stupid. And when dealing with children who are that smart,  
(and know it),  
petty arguments become a way of testing each other for weaknesses. And Near had the best aim in all of Wammy's.

"He was only in the dryer for a couple of hooooours! WE WERE PLAYING HIDE AND SEEK! Not my fault!"  
"Right. Hide and seek with the dryer...on?" Roger's voice was stern, but he was having a difficult time keeping a straight face through all of this.  
After all, everyone was alright,  
and even after being caught red-handed, Mello seemed to be perfectly convinced that this was Near's fault.  
No use waking Quillish over something so juvenille - he might seperate the two, and their potential was extensive.  
No use listing it in their records, just in case it had been some sort of misunderstanding.  
And so maybe things would just work themselves out; they were only children, after all.

Things did NOT just work themselves out.  
Retaliations all around - and only the best, from the two best students to date:  
Near stole Mello's homework,  
Mello hid Near's legos,  
Near ripped Mello's favorite shirt,  
Mello ripped Near's favorite stuffed animal (and mocked him for having one),  
Near recieved better marks on an exam,  
Mello accused him of cheating,  
Near accused Mello of cheating, and Roger BELIEVED him,  
Mello strangled Near,  
Mello wasn't allowed to leave his room for almost three days,  
Mello strangled Near AGAIN,  
Near laughed.  
Over those past few months, they probably learned the most about each other - among other things.  
Near learned that Mello was fairly easy to manipulate once pushed past a certain point - a breaking point, maybe. Mello used to call it "losing his shit."  
Once Mello lost his shit, Near had the edge - and as long as he could keep his distance, there wasn't any harm in it, either.  
And Mello learned that Near was in no way cute or soft-spoken or to be underestimated -  
and that he was going to learn how to shoot a gun in the near future.


	7. 6

He could speak French now; almost seamlessly,  
except that his timing was poor,  
and if he wasn't paying attention, tenses would get confused and his grammar was practically non-existant.

But Roger's greatest frustration with Near was that he couldn't convince him to wear shoes,  
as Near was too embarrassed to admit that he hadn't learned to tie them.  
He also wasn't the cleanest student by far, and would not only leave his toys lying anywhere he might have been,  
but classwork, books, any snacks he might have gotten a hold of, and even once a piece of sea-glass that he had found lying on the floor of Austin's room.  
It was unfortunate with Roger's old age and failing sight,  
that he only saw the classwork, books, and snack foods.

Near was a creature of habit - moving back to the same spot he always had in the main study to sit,  
and it's assumed that he must have been either observing or reading there.  
Either way, he had obviously forgotten about the glass in the floor.  
It's not that he would have been seriously injured if Mello hadn't found him that morning,  
barely five minutes after he had stepped on the glass,  
and he must have been the quietest child there that day, eyes glazed over while examining his own wound in awe - "Mello. Faire mal. Au secours."  
(ahem, "Mello. It hurts. Help.")  
Mello was about as familiar with French as he was with hearing Near ask for help -  
so to hear both in the same breath was overwhelming for him,  
and he decided to scream (very loudly), pointing and shouting at the offending gash in Near's foot,  
like it might bite him if he got too close.

Roger insisted that he stay in medical for the next couple of weeks. Had it been a clean broken glass from the kitchen, things may have been easier.  
But sea-glass would probably cause an infection - especially if Near found it in the room Austin shared with Matt; God only knew what was _growing _in there_._  
Near's time in bed gave him a chance to re-acquaint himself with his old love of puzzles,  
and he went through them quickly and with such precision, that Quillish's visits became more and more frequent.  
He brought arm-fulls of the most challenging puzzles he had - some even L hadn't been able to piece together so quickly.  
But Near completed them all differently:  
sometimes row by row, like he could already see the picture in his head;  
Sometimes he started in the middle, which seemed impossible. And once,  
Near even put one together while glancing mostly out the window;  
his favorite one, a red barn with an old woman watering flowers.  
5,000 pieces in under an hour in a zig-zag pattern. And nobody had bothered to count how many times he had already solved it, by then.

He stopped talking for a little while after that, and really there was no reason for it,  
accept that he was tired.  
It was redundant, constantly explaining _why_ or _how_ he did things; sometimes with children years above him listening intently.  
Near was sure that they never understood half of what he was saying.  
He was also sure that they would take the next available opportunity to spit whatever they had just heard into Roger's ear, all smiles and bright eyes.  
That was the one thing he and Mello both understood,  
and agreed on.  
Wammy's was a warzone - the rules were to win, and professors were just fine with the means as long as there was a winner.  
The faster you learned that, the closer you were to getting rid of those who didn't - and that was the goal, ultimately.

One morning, Austin didn't come to class - and Matt refused to talk or look anybody in the eye,  
leaving the lesson early after telling Roger that there wasn't any point in learning "this shit" if that wasn't even good enough.  
If Austin hadn't even been good enough.  
Mello left second - and if Near hadn't known better, he might have thought that he was throwing a tantrum;  
fists balled tightly, while muttering something about  
"Bullshit. This whole fucking PLACE is nothing but a factory."  
He even tried to hit Roger, when he tried to keep Mello from walking out.  
By the time the lesson was over - almost three hours of politics and punnet squares,  
Near walked out into the hallway to find Matt slumped against a wall, tracing stick figures on the brick with an eraser,  
and Mello still muttering angrily - this time in a different language.  
"Mello?"  
When Near spoke, Mello was suddenly very quiet.  
"Don't lose. Ok?"

And Matt was the only one that smiled.


End file.
